


Gilderoy Lockhart and the Ghouls of Egypt

by princehamlet



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:18:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princehamlet/pseuds/princehamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon seeing that the Wizarding World has grown tired of seeing Gilderoy Lockhart's name in flashing lights, everyone's least favorite author decides to take a hiatus from his comfortable home in London's Wizarding World in favor of a vacation filled with more adventures. But upon arriving at the heart of Egypt, Gilderoy can't help but wonder if he's bitten off more than he can chew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

I woke up with a start, a layer of cold sweat covering practically the whole span of my face. In blind panic, I threw my cover off in one sloppy motion and jerked my body to the side so that my bare feet could touch the floor. My breaths came shallowly as I tried to wake up, to shake off the anxieties of the dream I had just come out of.  
I let a moment pass, and another, and another. As I calmed down and the gears of my brain started moving around—which was a miracle in itself, honestly—I decided that what I had experienced only seconds ago hadn’t been a dream at all. It had just been… a feeling. An ominous feeling. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was normal, I mean, I hadn’t come from a family of psychics so my dreams weren’t particularly futuristic, if you catch my drift. I spent the next couple of minutes boiling in my own thoughtless silence and the uncomfortable atmosphere – I heard that brute snoring upstairs, hence my lack of comfort – until I gave up and slid back under the thin cover. 

Here I am. Sitting in a crappy bed filled with straw in some obscure little town where nobody knows my name. I assure you, this is torture for me – after all, there is something very disheartening about a place that has never seen or heard of the likes of Gilderoy Lockhart. But I suppose I must have something to give my adoring fans – a little bit of romance, a little bit of action, a little bit of tragedy. 

Oof! The real tragedy here is how aching my back is going to be in the morning. Damn that witch and wizard! But to continue on with my explanation, I suppose a good place to start is not the middle, indeed – any good storyteller knows that, and I assure you, I am a fantastic storyteller. So let us forget this bleak start and begin again.


	2. Off to Egypt

It was a sunny morning in my London apartment. Quite nice, actually. It was a bit overcast outside, and there was a damp breeze coming in through my window, blowing my sheer curtains about. I couldn’t help but take an aesthetic picture in my head as I curled up on my couch with a (frankly lukewarm) cup of tea. Back then, I truly thought I had everything I wanted. A comfortable place to stay, a more than decent income, a reputation that preceded me, and most importantly: respect. I would grin to think of people talking of me in the streets – _did you hear about Gilderoy Lockhart, winner of Best Smile Of The Year three years in a row? Oh,_ that Gilderoy Lockhart? Winner of many an accolade besides that? Are we talking about the Gilderoy Lockhart, established author, talented wizard, and stunningly handsome?

\-- Excuse me. I’m getting off track. 

Essentially, I was finally happy. Something I hadn’t been in seemingly a very, very long time. Growing up as the prodigy of the Ravenclaw house, I felt a constant need to be the best in every way. And I would love to say that I always was, but I have to admit that I wasn’t. Professors saw room for improvement, even concern for my insatiable thirst for… erm… attention. 

Heh. Proved them wrong. Once I grew up a little, I become positive that everybody loved me. 

This apparent happiness with my life was what I mainly thought about in those days. It’s rather easy to get lost in such contentment – and why wouldn’t you want to get lost in a good mood, while it’s there? Better than moping around all the time, or getting frustrated with your lack of talent, or inability to understand certain ways of brewing potions, or not even having a boyfriend while your two older sisters are off dating and getting married, or being harshly criticized by people who just don’t understand or appreciate your hard work… 

Goodness, I’m losing my touch.

But since we’re on the subject of things that frustrate me daily, that was where it all began. _Frustration_. I put down my then-cold cup of tea and picked up a newspaper and my reading glasses. Yada yada, Azkaban this, Dumbledore that, Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hogwarts. Same old dull news, I assumed. I gave up to looking at a moving comic strip, abandoning the idea of news that piqued my interest-- but that was when I saw my name sticking out like a sore thumb in one particular column. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest in surprise because, oh, how could I have not been informed that someone was going to be praising me publicly?! I _loved_ to be praised publicly, and my agent knew that full well! I changed my position on the couch to be sitting on my feet, adjusted my spectacles, and prepared myself for a good old ego-stroke. 

Oh, if only. 

The rude person who wrote the article – I won’t name any names, Mr. Jeremy Frederick Higgins, because I am not petty whatsoever – called me all sorts of things. He said that I was in desperate need of a better editor, that my voice made it so that he was reading a diary and not a memoir, that my stories were balderdash, and that my books were, in a word or two, completely overrated. Now, I am not one to take such criticism personally, but normally there isn’t much criticism at all _to_ take personally. That being said, the article hurt my feelings deeply, so I called my mother and vented for about half an hour, and made another cup of tea.

I know what you’re thinking. Real pathetic, Gilderoy, you mama’s boy. But I’ve got a routine established here in _chez Lockhart_ , and I refuse to feel judged for it! 

The feeling of contentment in my home was smashed to pieces, and the frustration took over again. It felt like being a budding young Ravenclaw all over again. Just because I read about one fool’s bad and wrong opinion, I was getting all worked up and I kept telling myself that _my books were awful and completely untrue and I was a thief, a terrible writer, and I should just become a hermit and die._ Yes, that’s right; even fantastic writers like me spiral… and I spiral bad. There’s a reason why I was sorted into Ravenclaw. I’m original and obsessive. Witty and desperate. Creative and narcissistic. 

Gryffindors have it so easy, the mindless brutes. 

But back on to the subject of me spiraling: I did what any author should not do. It’s funny, us creative types seem to have some kind of odd affinity for self-torture, and that was all that ensued. I was obsessed and horrified, and the thought was planted in my mind that… wait a second… _if Mr. Jeremy Frederick Higgins disliked my books so much that he wrote a flaming, rude critique of it for the Daily Prophet_ (the Daily Prophet, for gods’ sake!), then did that mean… other people don’t like it too?

Like I said. Self-torture. I went on a search for as many bad reviews as I could. Occasionally, I would see one five-starrer and read what they had to say just to try to restore that contentment. But their compliments and genuine love for what I had written only skimmed over the surface of my mood and threw itself into my mental waste basket, for in that moment, my self-loathing was too adamant in my head. I refused to see the good in my hard work, silly me. 

That being said, after a billion too many bad reviews crammed into my head, I saved myself a tearful and dramatic breakdown by coming to a decision: The Wizarding world thinks I am overrated, so I will _make_ them miss me. I will make them hunger for what I had to say, make them thirst for my adventures and charming voice. Essentially, in my head, I created the image/scenario that The Wizarding World was my boyfriend who ‘just wanted some space’, so I went on a vacation for a month, and by the time I came back, The Wizarding World had sent me 72 text messages and I had 20 missed calls. 

So I crammed my belongings into a suitcase and I went, plain and simple. 

\-- Actually, that isn’t true. You see, the point of this particular piece I am writing at the moment is to be truthful and whole, because it will probably be read by very few people, considering my current situation is atrocious and I may not make it out alive. To stay true to the account (how is that for memoirs, hmm, Mr. Higgins?), I called my agent and informed her that I was going on a vacation, hung up on her when she tried to remind me of a certain deadline, spent several hours packing clothes, hair products, and things to keep me occupied, boarded the Knight Bus, had a trivial conversation with a squib who asked _“if I was that one author”_ , got off at Kings Cross, waited another hour and leafed through a copy of _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ that they were selling at the convenience store in the station, and eventually boarded.

Then I slept. For four hours. So to say that the process was “plain and simple” would be untruthful; I was _extremely_ spent by the time I arrived at my next stop. I took a ferry to come into Holland, careful not to speak with the muggles around me – they were so enchanted with a simple body of water, the poor things! – and once I got off, I ate. After a bit, more train travel ensued. I just kept going, honestly. Far as my sickles and galleons could take me, which was far, far, far, for I was a very rich man. 

_Am_. Am a very rich man. Sigh.

Unaware of how much time had passed, yet vaguely knowing it had been many, many hours, I arrived in Egypt. “Gilderoy, oh, Gilderoy,” I’m sure you’re thinking right now, “you pretty little fool. You’re in a foreign country, the money you brought along is already dwindling a bit, and you have no idea what to do. All this just because of a bad review? Why don’t you just take a plane back up to London? Your comfortable feather bed is there, and all your adoring fans, too. Or you could call mother, and make everything all right again.”  
“No, _you’re_ the fool!” I counter at you. “For you see, I’m about to go on the adventure of a lifetime, and a spontaneous beginning is the most exciting kind of beginning! I can’t simply return to The Wizarding World (which I’m sure already misses me – maybe as much as I miss it, to be honest) with empty hands, I’ve got to have a story! A scoop! Don’t you know anything?”  
“I know nothing compared to your vast knowledge!” You say back.

Oh, _you._ Back to the tale.

So, I arrived in Egypt at horrendously early hours. It was on the cusp of the morning, and the air was lukewarm with a nice breeze. I wrapped my purple cloak tighter around my arms and adjusted its hood on my head, just to make things a little more mysterious and exciting.  
The day that ensued was not, indeed, mysterious and exciting, but rather, horrifically mundane and boring. I felt like a brainless tourist, wandering until the sun rose high enough for the hotels to open. Once I found one with a vacant room, I checked in immediately and slept for seemingly the longest time. My bed was horribly uncomfortable, and I do believe I spotted a cockroach in the corner of my room, but oh well. A hero must be tested sometimes, of course. In the late afternoon or early evening, I roused myself from bed, brushed my teeth, changed my clothes (if you must know, a crisp white shirt, some stylish brown slacks that I picked up from a muggle store, my favorite beige shawl, and a simple sun hat. And if you must know, I looked completely adorable), and went out with some galleons in my back pocket and some sickles in my front pocket.  
I wasted a good hour or two in the marketplace before the sun found itself setting again. There was nothing particularly interesting there – just some produce, lots and lots of jewelry, some candied and/or deep fried I-don’t-know-what, and an overabundance of people yelling at me. 

So, overall, it didn’t feel too different from press conferences or conventions. You get used to crowds, being as famous as I am. 

I found myself bored and restless, and already I was regretting my decision to leave my London apartment a bit. This change of scenery hadn’t satisfied my disappointment in myself, hadn’t filled whatever hole in my heart I thought it was going to fill. I was frustrated in London, and now I was just frustrated in Egypt, except now I had a dent in my bank account and a very angry agent (or at least, I assumed. Here’s hoping she hasn’t quit over the fact that I test her patience every day of her career).  
But I didn’t have the chance to stay bored for long. The marketplace had filtered itself of its main buyers and sellers, and people were in the process of closing down their shops. As I rounded a rather desolate corner, the real story began.

A woman’s arm came around my throat, her surprisingly well-manicured hand came up to clamp over my mouth. I felt something press into my back, and decided it was either a muggle knife or a surprisingly well-sharpened wand. My heart leaped in some odd mix of joy, excitement, and complete horror… because, well, _sure_ , I was in a dangerous situation that could end in my death, but this was the scoop I wanted! If I didn’t leave this country considerably… erm… _punctured_ , this would be the perfect thriller!  
She started speaking a language I couldn’t understand, and I felt a sort of vague panic bubbling up in my chest. The second she pulled her hand away so I could respond, the words burst forth without a single thought to them: “I—I’m sorry. I don’t speak— “

“English, then!” She countered, quick as a mouse. My eyebrow quirked upwards at her diligent change, and I tried to crane my neck to get a good look at her. But I simply couldn’t. She was pressing the point of the knife harder into my back, now. “Give me your money, monkey.”  
Monkey! I felt so abused. “I don’t have any money from here.” I said feebly. I figured it was a pretty good excuse; normally muggles took one look at a thick galleon and dropped it like a hot potato. It wasn’t an equivalent to their gold, so it wasn’t any use to them.  
“Give it!” She exclaimed, and I yelped as she pricked me with the knife’s point. Once again exercising my tendency to make thoughtless decisions, I dug a couple of sickles out of my pocket – by Merlin’s beard, my galleons were in my back pocket, not my front! I was so subtly pleased with myself – and I spun around, dropping them in her hand.  
I tried to edge away as she gaped over the sickles, but she was too quick. She pointed (what I then realized was) a wand at me. “You.” She said, her voice thickly accented with what I assumed was something of Arabic origins. “You’re not from here, and non-muggle tourists are not common this time of year. Who are you?”  
“No. I’m—I’m an author. Gilderoy Lockhart.”  
“Why are you _here_ , Gilderoy Lockhart?” She asked forcefully, her eyes squinting slightly as she jabbed her wand at me. My name rolled off her tongue in the strangest way; it was like a crude awakening that I had a very, _very_ strange name to the rest of the world. The thought raced through my head in only a second and I found my pride a little more hurt.  
But I shook it off in order to respond, “Um... writers block?” I didn’t mean to pose it as a question, but I was very afraid she was going to _avada kedavra_ me into smithereens. In what felt like a millisecond – what _must_ have been a millisecond! —she lunged toward me, grabbing my collar in her hand. She pointed her wand right at my neck, so close I could feel the energy and power pulsing through the sleek weapon. I felt like I was tensing every muscle in my body, and my eyes were shut tight, seeing as I was expecting her to beat me up or something.

What? I grew up with books and a lack of friends. I was not raised brave, I was not raised a Gryffindor, and I never played Quidditch, so I don’t really know what it’s like to be seriously injured. I was scared. 

It’s… surprisingly freeing to admit that without worry or embarrassment. I was _really_ scared.

No spell or stab came, so I opened one eye very carefully. She was rather close in this attack position, so I had a better chance to get look at her. She had dark, olive skin, brilliant green eyes, and hair clipped much shorter than mine. Her nails were cut to be deathly sharp, but not near as sharp as her practically unmeetable gaze. She had a nose ring, and wore a black crop top with beige cargo shorts – a hilarious contrast to my flowery tourist look. 

… So, no. Not a conventional looking witch at all. Or, that is to say, she definitely had more of a street rat look to her, as opposed to the fashionable, savvy, professional witches I was used to back home. But still pretty, I had to note.  
And as another side-note, trust me, I coherently processed none of this when these events were actually taking place; my mind felt like one static broadcast at the time, to be honest. I was looking and not analyzing. The analysis came later, when I was forced to come with her. Which is right where we’re at in this story that we must get back to. 

“You said you are an author?” She asked. I felt her breath in my face, and that made me very uncomfortable.  
“Yes.” I said. “Talented wizard, too.” What can I say? I’ll always look for places to toot my own horn, and I was having a bad day, if that wasn’t obvious enough by now.  
“Talented wizard…” She echoed, her green eyes subtly darting between contact with my left and right eye (odd, the specific things you notice when you’re terrified) as she seemed to mull over some kind of decision in her head. “Come with me,” she said, and circled me until her wand was pushing me from behind again.  
“Where are we going?” I dared to ask as she swerved me into an alleyway. She didn’t respond. 

Her home is, for lack of a better word, a shack. A two-story shack. I hate to be stereotypical here, but they are so impoverished, it’s sad. She pushed me through the creaky door so roughly that I fell. I didn’t bother to get up. To be honest, I haven’t really moved since then.  
“Titus!” She shouted, without pulling her eyes away from me.  
Someone (who I assumed, in the moment, was her brother) lumbered down the wooden ladder that joined the two stories at an astoundingly slow speed. He was big and bulky, more wide than tall. His hair was buzzed, and he had skin and eyes to match the girl.  
I wonder if this guy’s parent(s) read Shakespeare. Titus Andronicus. Killed people. Baked ‘em into pies and stuff. The thought flashed through my panicked, adrenaline-pumped head: _oh, god, am I going to be baked into a pie?_ But no. This Titus could only kill me with his gaze. What was it with these two and their frighteningly sharp eyes?  
He shot her an inquisitive look, and she jerked her chin toward me. Then, she started rattling off in their native language. I looked back and forth at their faces to try and process some kind of conversation, but it was a bit hard. She gave him an explanation, and he rumbled some kind of protest, and then she got a bit mad, and then he grumbled something else, and went back upstairs. 

“I’m… sorry to interrupt, but…” I carefully reminded her of my presence, “...who are you, and what do you want from me?”  
She crouched down, balancing on the balls of her feet alone, and gave me a very nasty look. “Stay here.” She commanded. “Sleep on that bed.” She nodded her head in the direction of the horrible, horrible straw bed in the corner. “Do not. Move. From this location.” The girl stood, and made a hasty beeline for the door. As she opened it, she turned her head and said, “If you get any funny ideas, I _will_ find you, monkey.” And with that final bullet to my ego, she was gone.

Feeling exhausted with all of these sudden shenanigans, I went over to the bed. 

“Gilderoy, you fool!” You cry at me, “You could run away right now! Don’t you hear Titus snoring? She’s gone! You could catch the train back home! Don’t you miss your feather bed, Gilderoy?! Don’t you miss your mother?! Aren’t the bad reviews better than this?”  
“Maybe this is my punishment for being a bad writer. I hope Jeremy Frederick Higgins will be damn proud of his article when they find my corpse,” I think, ignoring you as I snuggle up under the sheets.  
I fell asleep, and woke up frightened, as has been previously established in our not-beginning.  
And with that, here we are at the present. I, Gilderoy Lockhart, have been kidnapped against my will, am sharing a home with two street rats who probably have some kind of magical enigma going on with their captivating eyeballs, am sleeping in a straw bed smack in the middle (and apparently, the magical neighborhood) of Egypt, and just had a bad, bad, ominous feeling I’ve never had before in my dreams.

I think I’ll call this adventure, _“Gilderoy Lockhart and the Ghouls of Egypt”_.

Stay tuned, beloved fan.


	3. The Plan

When I came to at a more reasonable hour, I heard Titus and the mystery girl mumbling to each other upstairs. Carefully did I roll out of bed and sneak to the bottom of the ladder in attempt to hear what they were talking about – but it was all in vain, because the ball of my foot made the unstable floorboards creak and that gave me away. I tried to look natural as the girl made herself seen. 

“Good morning.” She said. Funnily enough, although her words were pretty casual, her tone was all business. I couldn’t help but cock a brow at her.  
“Morning.” I said back. Yes, that’s right. It wasn’t a good morning at all. “Are you going to tell me what you want with me?”  
“After coffee.” She said a bit sluggishly, climbing down the ladder and dropping down when she had three rungs to go. “I presume you want some? Or is it tea that Londoners cannot live without?”  
Internally grumbling, I said, “Coffee’s fine. Three sugars.”  
She only rolled her eyes and made her way toward the rickety little stove in the corner. 

I went back to the bed, sitting on the edge in order to pull my socks and shoes back on. I only did so to convince myself that I really was going to be leaving soon, to be honest. And as I previously anticipated, my back was aching. The only hopes I had in mind were the coffee she was brewing over there, and the fact that the second I found a chance to escape, I would go right home. I guess my adventurous self died when I graduated Hogwarts, but hey. Adult life. At the ripe age of thirty-two, I was down for the count.

Oh, come on, Gilderoy! Internally, I was hitting myself.

After a few moments, she handed me a cup of coffee that looked blacker than I’d hoped. Ruefully did I sip at it and put it aside – tasted like the gross stuff my dad used to drink in the mornings. I opened my mouth to begin forcing some questions on her, but before I could, she piped up.  
“I’m sure you have questions.” She said without looking at me. She had taken a little spoon, and was spooning a bit of syrup into her coffee. Once again, I watched with a confused gaze. Finally, she shot a glance at me. “Well?”

“Oh.” I said, picking up the cup again to look like I was actually going to drink the crap she had given me. “Yes. Yes, I do.” I pulled myself from my wonderings about how people drank their drinks and put on a stern face—but my moods were a bit mismatched. I was still waking up, mind you. “Who are you, for starters?”

“Circe.” She said, leaning her back against the small counter beside the stove. She held her cup in one hand quite coolly, and brought it to her lips with raised eyebrows. “Next.”  
“Surname?”  
“I have none.”  
“What, were you raised by wolves?” I dared to ask, really quite confused.  
“Not wolves.” Her voice was a fluttering chuckle. “Titus found me, raised me, and named me.” She dipped her head to indicate the upstairs, where her brother still was hanging around. 

I only wanted to know so I could file an accurate police report.

“Circe, like, _turn-people-into-pigs-Circe._ ” I said dubiously, leaning against the wall and sandwiching the cup of coffee between my palms.  
“You know muggle literature, very nice.” Ah! Validation from my kidnapper! Everything I’ve ever wanted! (That was sarcasm.) “But you are wasting your question time, Gilderoy Lockhart.”  
“Right.” I looked at her and nibbled on my thumb nail for a second before continuing on, “What do you want with me, and when can I go? Also, why didn’t you kill me last night, when you seemed like you really wanted to? Also, why did you steal my money and then just decide to kidnap me? Seems like you and your friend are pretty well off. Is this some kind of magical slum you’ve brought me to?”

“Not that fast.” She said, placing her coffee on the table behind her. “You claimed to be a talented wizard. We are looking for a talented wizard, because we need one – Titus and I know a few spells and that is all. I only pointed my wand because I was robbing you, but I probably could have gone without it – you’re quite the feminine little man.” Hey! Just because I’m better dressed and cuter doesn’t mean she’s gotta throw punches like that. “Gotta have money to pay the rent, monkey – do we honestly look well-off to you?” Her nose crinkled slightly in a sneer. “You’re a rich, white man who lives in London and writes books for a living. If you mock me like that again, you will regret it, do you understand me?”

In a whimper, I said, “You remembered I’m an author.”  
“I never forget.” She said, tearing her gaze away to return to her coffee. 

That statement struck a nerve with me. When I was in Charms at Hogwarts – top of my class, of course – I was always particularly good at the memory charm. I’d practice on my classmates for laughs. Make them forget everything they studied over the weekend, watch them flail through an exam, and then give them back their memories afterward.

Erm… what was that I said about being on the top of my class? And about not being petty whatsoever? Thank goodness nobody is really going to read this particular memoir. 

But anyways, it dawned on me that if I could just get ahold of one of their wands – assuming they both had one of their own – I could make them forget practically everything and snake my way out of there without a second thought about them.  
But I didn’t want to take the hostile route just yet. One thing she said stood out to me in particular, and that Ravenclaw curiosity of mine had the reins. As the air lifted of the tension I accidentally made, I sipped at the coffee she gave me ( _BLARGH!_ It tasted just as bad as the first time, so I just put it away) and eventually said, “You mentioned that you needed a talented wizard. What for?”

Circe sighed a heavy sigh, and went upstairs again. So suddenly I was alone again. 

After a couple minutes, I heard her and Titus begin a hasty discussion in their native language yet again. From down below, their whispers sounded similar to snakes hissing. My mind drifted until she slid down the ladder and her brother came hulking down, rung by rung, as well.

“Alright, monkey,” she began.  
“Gilderoy,” I corrected.  
“Monkey.” She insisted, giving me a _you-really-have-tested-me-enough-today_ look. I knew that look well enough from my agent, so I shut up. “We have decided to tell you the truth about our ordeal, because we do need you. But I want you to understand that once you hear it, you cannot tell anyone else, nor can you back out.”

 _Novel idea! Novel idea! Novel idea!_ My brain was screaming at me as loudly as a police siren. The don’t-tell-anyone part flew far, far over my head, and I knew I’d probably back out, so I obviously said, “Of course. I want to know, since you went through all the trouble of bringing me here against my will.”  
Circe glanced up at Titus with a worried look, and I could only guess what kind of tale was in store for me. To be honest, I was getting a bit excited at the prospects of some kind of thrilling adventure. All thought of my London home seemed to melt away.

“Our friend Inigo is in trouble.” Circe said.  
That’s all? I thought, and nearly said aloud. Disappointed. “Oh?” I prompted, trying not to sound a bit let down.

“Yes.” She said, face extremely solemn. Circe crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the creaky walls of the house, gearing up to unload her tale on me. “Inigo is a security guard for the pyramids. You know, they can’t have people sneaking in there overnight, and looting them for anything that might still be in the tombs. Archaeologists are hardly allowed, but there isn’t much to see, really.” She halted at having accidentally admitted to being in the pyramids. Embarrassed, she went to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but seemed to remember that it was buzzed.

I liked this bashful side of Circe. Made her look less like someone charged for manslaughter.

She went on after clearing her throat. “Anyways. If you’ve studied it, I’m sure you’ve learned that the pyramids have, since ancient times, been a strange conductor of energy. There has been much speculation as to why that is. The most popular theory – that is both well-liked and scorned upon-- is that the ancient Egyptians used these pyramids to… well… raise the dead with the help of this energy.”  
My eyebrows shot up. Perhaps _Gilderoy Lockhart and the Zombies of Egypt_ would be a better title for this particular adventure. 

Circe said, “Inigo was just doing his job, he –“ She sighed, trying to keep herself from getting worked up. “He saw a man with a wand run into the pyramids, and he pursued. Since then, we haven’t seen him. They assigned a new guard to watch that location without so much as a second glance at whatever happened to Inigo.” Every word sounded strained. “I’ve tried to go in looking for him myself… the new guard is a muggle, you see, so it is rather easy to get by.” That’s why she’s been in them, because she was looking for her boyfriend. Easy enough explanation. “But the energy is too strong. I get horrible headaches.”

For the first time, Titus spoke in a tongue I could understand, his voice a low grumble. “She was asleep for nearly 24 hours after going in there.”

I hummed slightly, trying to pick my words with care. “So, what do you want me to do about it?”  
“I want you to go in there and find him, of course!” The words burst forth from her lips so quickly that I was taken aback. Titus put a hand on her shoulder. “We cannot do it alone, and he could be long dead… if he is, he at least deserves a proper burial. He does not deserve to rot in the tomb of ancient kings.”  
I don’t know what Inigo thinks, but that sounds really cool – and also a bit like a band name. “ _Rot in the Tomb of Ancient Kings_ , coming to a live venue near you.” Y/n?  
“I will not ask anything else of you, and I will let you go when I see him again.” She topped off her explanation, and seemed exhausted of it. “Well? What do you say?” Circe urged after just a moment’s silence. 

Let me get this straight. She wants me to wave around my wand a bit, go into a spooky historical landmark, find her boyfriend’s corpse, and drag it back here? Sounds like the easiest possible task she could have given me. And here I thought we were going to be dealing with all sorts of horrible things. Just to test the waters, I asked, “Do I even have to ask what will happen if I refuse?”

All it took was Titus cracking his neck to convince me. 

“We leave at sunset,” I posed, only wondering what I had gotten myself into with this tantrum-induced vacation.


End file.
